The guilt of a broken man
by BRIGHTSIDEash
Summary: Just a short chapter into the mind of Stiles Stilinski.


**This is basically just a bit of drabble that I thought up tonight! I love Teen Wolf and have been wanting to write some fanfiction for it. **

**Hopefully, I'll get something else out of my mind. But for now, have the thoughts of Sheriff Stilinski. **

A half empty bottle of whiskey sits on the kitchen table in front of me. Next to it, an empty whiskey glass. I stare at the bottle. My memories consume me, but that's nothing unusual.

I remember brown eyes in a lovely, healthy face. A smile that could light up the room, and such a gentle manner. Things had been so perfect once upon a time.

I still remember the day Stiles was born, and the way she had looked down at the screaming child in her arms. A picture forever seared into my mind. We had been such a close family, spending all of our free time around one another, taking young Stiles away for weekend vacations when I wasn't on duty.

The vacations became fewer once I became Sheriff, but I was still there as much as possible. She never held any resentment for my being out at ungodly hours, or being called off in the middle of dinner. She would only smile at me.

_"You go get 'em, Sheriff."_ I would give her long enough for Stiles to make faces, and then go on my way. She had been so proud when they promoted me to Sheriff.

Stiles was eleven when she started getting tired all the time. Suddenly our walks in the woods would tire her out, and she'd need to lay down as soon as we got home. She slept most of the time and complained of aches deep in her body. She went days without eating, adamant that she wasn't hungry. Bruises started appearing that she couldn't explain. That's when we took her to the Doctor, during the day when Stiles was at school.

Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia.

The only thing I remember from the Doctor's ramblings is the name of what was killing my wife. I don't remember his explanation of what it was, what could happen, how it was treated, or any of what he was saying. All I remember from that consultation with the doctor is _Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia_. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it.

Stiles knew all the facts. We decided to tell him right away, try to explain why his mom was so sick, and why she'd likely get even sicker in the future. We told him there was a chance she could still live, but there was also a chance she could not. I think he spent two days holed up in his room on the computer, searching up every minuscule detail he could about the disease.

Maybe that's what started him off. Ever since then, he's been very big into the facts. Always telling me he's doing research, listing off random facts most people wouldn't know.

After a lot of chemotherapy and so many bad days, the colour started returning to my wife's cheeks. She wanted to get up and go out, take family walks out in the woods, eat everything in the kitchen. The Doctor called it remission. I called it a damn miracle. Two years of believing everything was right in the world again.

And then she relapsed. Got even sicker than before, and deteriorated even quicker. The Doctors told us that there wasn't much hope this time around. Chemotherapy wouldn't work. A few months at best.

Four months, to be exact. Four months to watch my wife waste away right before my eyes. There were days she would seem like her old self, and I thought maybe, just maybe, it would be okay. We didn't get another miracle.

Stiles was _fourteen_ when he lost his mother.

I begin to weep, tears falling from my eyes unbidden. My hand forms into a fist and I knock the bottle and glass away from me. The smash of glass is almost deafening in the otherwise silence. I stare at the scattered shards, the pool of amber liquid, and I don't care.

It's not fair. None of this has been fair. She shouldn't have died. She was a good, kind and gentle woman! IT'S NOT FAI-

"Dad?" The hesitant voice stops my thoughts abruptly, and I swipe my hand across my eyes before looking up at Stiles. He's standing at the door, eyes falling on the remnants of my bottle of whiskey, back at me. I know what he sees. Flushed cheeks, red eyes, shaking hands. A drunk father. A failure. "You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Fine Stiles, I'm fine." I can't even muster a reassuring smile for my own son. I push the chair back and stand up, beginning to gather up the broken glass. Stiles is at my side, collecting more shards in his hands.

"Careful," I mutter. A snag of pain on my finger and I yank my hand back with a hiss, looking down at the blood welling up from a cut. Stiles says nothing, only leads me to the kitchen, where he digs out some bandages. He washes out the wound and binds it. I watch him closely, and am hit with a huge bite of guilt.

I've not been the best father. It's quite evident. Looking at him now, I can see that Stiles has been out of the house. His car keys are on the counter next to him, his cheeks are flushed from the cold and he's got his boots on. I hadn't even noticed he'd been out of the house.

"Where have you been tonight?" I ask, and his eyes flicker to me, straight back down. Is he figuring out a lie to tell me?

"Just out with Scott." The usual answer. The two of them have been pretty inseparable for many years now. I'm pretty certain Scott was Stiles' biggest help through his mother's death. More guilt.

"Do anything fun?" I lean back against the counter, and wonder when the last time we had a real conversation was, beyond talking about my cases.

"Just out in the woods." He shrugs. I stand up straight, a flutter of panic rising in my chest.

"The woods?" I ask incredulously. His eyes go wide, and he starts to shake his head, realising what he had told me.

"Well not out out into the woods. I mean, we were out, but you know ... not ... out." He gestures a lot with his hands and pulls a face at his terrible attempt to backtrack.

"You know how dangerous it is out there, Stiles. So many attacks lately, and we still have no idea what's going on. You can't just go wandering out there at night, Stiles! Who knows what could happen and I don't know what I'd do if you - if you-" I pinch my nose, inhale deeply. Stiles' eyes widen.

"I-it's okay, dad." He says quietly. "I promise, I won't go out there any more. Okay?"

I sigh and nod my head, pull him in for a quick, tight hug. His arms snake around me and we stand there for a moment, holding one another. We let go, and he gestures to the stairs.

"I'm gonna go to bed. Will you be... all right?" His gaze flickers to the floor again, where there's still glass and spilt whiskey.

"Yeah, you head on up. I'll clean up down here."

I watch him disappear up the stairs, and think about all the things we still don't say. So much we don't talk about, so much time we don't spend together. There's been a flurry of crime in Beacon Hills recently, and I spend most of my time either at the station or reviewing my case files. I don't even know how Stiles is doing in school, if there's new friends in his life, if he stopped taking so much damn adderall.

After cleaning up, I trudge up the stairs but pause at the door to Stiles' bedroom. There's usually a strip of light from his computer, and the tapping of his keys, but it's silent inside. I open the door as quietly as I can, and peek inside. He's sprawled on his bed, tangled up in the quilt, one leg dangling over the side, and his mouth open wide. Asleep. There's something at the side of his head.

I step into the room, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the moon. I pick up the photo that is laid at the side of his head. A photo from years ago, when he was thirteen; whilst his mom was in remission. We'd taken him out to a carnival, and he had gotten cotton candy all over his face. The three of us were in the photo, with big smiles on our faces. It was taken minutes before Stiles threw up all over my shoes. I can't help but smile at the memory.

I place the photo on the dresser beside his bed, nudge his leg back under the quilt, and kiss the top of his shaved head.

"I love you, Stiles." I tell him quietly, because I don't tell him enough.

"Love you too, dad." He mumbles back, but I can't tell if he's awake or not.

I silently promise myself that I'll be a better father. Find a way to balance out the work and Stiles. I'll be the man he needs me to be.


End file.
